I met my friend Colby Smith a long time ago. My first memory of our friendship is a late night conversation set to 90s hardcore vinyl. I don’t remember what we talked about but I know we both thought it was really, really important.

Since then, we’ve wasted a lot of time together at coffee shops and shows and outdoor malls and 80s nights and the foyers of tattoo shops. I worked at a vegan coffee shop he managed unpaid. I got paid; he didn’t. We launched his failed rap career. We climbed ski lifts in the Utah Mountains in the Summer. He was the best man at my wedding. He’s tried and failed to convince me that aliens influenced human civilization. I’ve tried and failed to convince him that any hardcore bands post-97 are any good. We were once part of a shadow organization dubbed, The Trifecta. We continue to prove the world wrong holding true to both veganism and straightedge. I almost succeeded at duct-taping him up and dropping him at a homeless shelter once. He almost kicked my teeth out the same night. A few years ago, he tattooed me so poorly I passed out… X1UPX. One time, he warned me not to dress like a “gaybo hippy.” I’m still trying to figure out what that means. Colby Smiff waters his lawn in the winter.

We both ended up in NYC over the years and even lived in the same building in the East Village for a year. While we don’t see each other as much as we both probably thought we would, our friendship is very important to me. He’s one of those friends you know will be there through good, bad or ugly.

Today’s his birthday. If you know him, wish him a good one. He deserves it.

This one goes out to you…